


In This World (it's Yeet or Be Yeeted)

by enby0angel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Gen Z Rosie Watson, Gen Z humour, Gen Z jokes, M/M, Original Child Characters, Original Holmes-Lestrade Child Character, Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson-Holmes, Rosie is a Gen Z with ADHD, Silly, a fun little ficlet that I had to do, background Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, fight me, that I will be reusing at some point because i have a Vision, vine references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 07:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18846880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enby0angel/pseuds/enby0angel
Summary: Or, three times that Johnlock don't understand Gen Z humour, but they love and support their daughter anyway.





	In This World (it's Yeet or Be Yeeted)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to "Rosie is a Gen Z and you can fight me", the fic where Rosie makes a lot of gen z jokes that has her fathers both amused and concerned. I don't know why I wrote this but I felt the need. So I did. Take my humble offerings, Sherlock fandom.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (You're welcome, Ladee and Acme. You're welcome.)

John looked up sharply as a crash resounded from the floor above. He looked over to his husband who looked entirely unperturbed, and decided to go up and check. Upon arriving to his daughter’s room, he knocked twice and stuck his head in the door.

He was greeted with the sight of his daughter lying spread out on the floor, face-down, not making a sound or attempting to get up. Just as he was about to voice his concern, however, Rosie mumbled into the floor, “I crave the sweet release of death.”

John closed his mouth and stared at Rosie. “Are you alright?” he asked. Rosie gave him a thumbs up, the rest of her body remaining still. “Are you sure?” This time she put up two fingers in what John assumed was an attempt at a peace sign. He could do nothing but blink in confusion. “What… what happened?”

Rosie rolled over onto her back, her arms flopping out either side of her. “The floor seemed like an appropriate place to be,” she answered weakly.

Raising an eyebrow, John asked, “And why is that?”

“Well, you see,” Rosie began, smiling cheerfully up at her father, “I only saw two options at the time: throwing myself onto the floor, or yeeting” - and what on earth kind of word was that, John wondered - “myself out of a window. And seeing as I’m on the third floor of this building in particular, defenstrating myself would mean I would have to walk back up here and quite frankly, I can’t be fucked. Therefore, the floor it was.”

John could only stare down at his daughter who had just admitted to wanting to throw herself out of a third-storey window. Normally he would be more concerned for her mental wellbeing, but she had a full grin on her face that seemed to reach her eyes, or at least to some extent. She sat up and crossed her legs, and put her hands in her lap. “I’m all good, I promise,” she announced. “That was just something that needed to happen.”

John put his hands in his pockets and looked up at the ceiling. He wasn’t entirely sure what to say. In the end he just shrugged and looked back down at her. “Alright,” he said not unkindly, “just let me know if you need anything.”

Flashing him a bright grin, she nodded. All at once she stood up (gracefully – she learned that from Sherlock, of course, John himself had never once stood up gracefully in his _life_ ) and came over to him, wrapping her arms around her father’s neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks, dad! Love you!”

John chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist and kissing her forehead. “I love you too, Rosie dear.”

  


  


John wasn’t home – he’d picked up an emergency late shift at the clinic and had called a few hours prior to let them know he wouldn’t be home. This was a perfect opportunity for Sherlock to conduct a little experiment in the kitchen. He tried to make as little a mess as possible, knowing John’s wrath when coming home to find the kettle unusable (that was a lecture he didn’t want to repeat), and made sure to clean up after himself when he was done.

He’d noticed as he went through the experiment that Rosie had never come down to join him. She’d taken a liking to his work and almost always came to join him whenever she hear odd sounds or strange scents drifted up the hallway. This time, however, Rosie hadn’t joined him.

He took a careful look around the kitchen. Seeing everything clean and tidy, in its proper place and missing any brain matter, he made his way up to Rosie’s room.

Opening the door, he was greeted to the smell of hot coffee. He blinked. How had Rosie gotten coffee up here? He’d been using the kettle. Ah, of course. Rosie had bought the three of them travel mugs a few months prior – this particular sort kept a drink hot for hours. Quite fantastic. Sherlock had started his experiment two hours prior, so Rosie could have easily gotten coffee before that. But more importantly…

“Why are you drinking coffee at ten o’clock at night?” Sherlock asked bluntly. He had never been a man to waste words, and Rosie knew that.

Rosie looked up from her laptop. She held his gaze with an unwavering poker face as she said, “Time is a social construct, papa. An illusion. It is an abstract construct created by humans and has no true impact on any events that occur at any point in time. Time does not matter for we all live in an endless cycle of life and death and once we realise this, we can truly live freely.”

Sherlock started in astonishment at his daughter as she raised her mug to her lips and took a long sip of her coffee, never breaking eye contact. Sherlock’s mind was whirring as he tried to figure out

Lowering her mug, Rosie continued, “And I have an essay due tomorrow that I haven’t finished yet.”

Ah. That would explain it. After a slight hesitation, for he may always be wary of offering help to his independent and fully capable daughter, he asked, “Would you like any help?”

“ _Please_.” Rosie shifted over on her bed to make room for him, and he gently sat next to her.

“What’s the essay on?” he inquired.

Rosie hesitated before answering hurriedly, “ADHD.” Sherlock blinked. Rosie rolled her eyes. “Yes, I am aware of the irony here, shut up.”

Sherlock felt a grin growing on his face. “I didn’t say anything,” he countered.

“I felt your disappointed aura, you can’t fool me.”

Hearing that, Sherlock couldn’t help but turn his head and press a slow, gentle kiss to his daughter’s hair. It was soft and gold, just like her father’s. She’d gotten her eyes from John as well, from the way they twinkled sky blue to the way they narrowed when she got upset.

Rosie leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, and Sherlock rested his chin on the top of her head in turn. She had gotten her height from her mother, which meant that she would most likely not surpass her father. Sherlock liked that. He could always hug her when she needed it.

“Thanks for checking in,” she said, “even though I’m still a piece of garbage.” She sung the last part, and Sherlock didn’t try to stop a laugh. He may not understand her all the time, but he still enjoyed her humour.

  


Rosie had friends – her fathers were perfectly aware of that – but she rarely had them over at Baker Street. From what her fathers knew, they usually met up in a park somewhere to do homework or even just to chat.

So Rosie coming into their home with not one but two strange people trailing her (Abigail Holmes was a constant in their household, with her fathers being the Detective Inspector of the NSY and the British Government, who sometimes couldn’t be home), was noticed and considered odd.

“Good afternoon, Rosie,” John called from his seat in the living room.

“Hi Dad!” Rosie answered cheerfully. “This is Leo and Ciara, do you mind if they stay a bit?”

John smiled at his book. “Of course not, Rosie.”

“Thanks!” She asked for the others to follow her, and they quietly thumped up the stairs to her room where their chatter was reduced to muffles.

“She’s never brought anyone other than family home before,” Sherlock commented, eyes not straying from the… whatever it was he was examining ( _please don’t let that be a brain in a jar…_ ).

John hummed. “Indeed,” he agreed. “She didn’t mention any surnames, did she?”

“No.”

“Do you think she’s dating one of them?”

Sherlock looked up sharply at that. “What?”

Fighting a smile, John repeated, “Do you think she’s dating one of them?”

“Absol _utely_ not.”

Just then Rosie’s voice drifted down the stairs, loud and clear, “ _Listen,_ Brook, in this world it’s _yeet_ or be _yeeted_.”

“Yote,” the boy’s, Leo’s, voice answered her.

“ _Yeeted._ ”

“Yote.” There were footsteps as they travelled back down the stairs.

“How dare you come into _my house_ and tell _me_ what the past tense of ‘yeet’ is. How. _Dare_. You. At least your cousin is nice.”

John and Sherlock looked at each other in bewilderment. What on earth…

“ _Dad! Papa!_ ”

They looked over at Rosie who was standing on the bottom step with conviction in her eyes.

“Would it make more sense for the past tense of ‘yeet’ to be ‘yeeted’ or ‘yote’? From a logical outsider’s perspective.”

The two looked at their daughter, then to each other, and then back to their daughter and the tall boy standing over her shoulder with an eyebrow raised. Neither said anything.

Rosie threw her hands in the air. “You two are no help.”

“Yote.”

“ _Leo, I swear to god-_ ”

The two teenagers delved into an argument as Rosie led the way into the kitchen and put the kettle on. John and Sherlock looked at each other, shrugged, and happily went back to what they were doing.

Parents may never understand half of the words that come out of their teenage children’s mouths, but that is perfectly alright.

“ _Leo I will yeet you out of my third-storey window so help me god-_ ”

Yep. Perfectly alright.

They might be replacing a window soon, though.

**Author's Note:**

> Hint hint: Ciara is an Irish name that means "little black one", and Leo's surname is Brook. I'll use them again someday. It may take me years, but I'll do it.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!! Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> Hang out with me on tumblr! My main is enby-angel.tumblr.com, and my Richard Brook ask blog/rp blog is ask-rich-brook.tumblr.com. I'm sick, please entertain me.
> 
> Love always <3


End file.
